


Words Like Seasalt

by biscuitlock (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Odesta, Romance, Spew of senseless emotions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/biscuitlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of intense Odesta drabbles.  These will probably be really incoherent and messy. Experimental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quell

We watch mandatory television on Sunday at noon for the Quarter Quell announcement. There's a grand leather sofa in this room, but for some reason we sit on the floor like little kids. I think it's because we feel vulnerable. Even more so because Finnick has just returned from one of his Capitol visits.

The projected images that glare on the screen are designed to heighten excitement. Perfectly timed music and colours and images all designed to grip and twist the human emotions in just the right way. A quick scene flashes across the screen, It's Finnick, my Finnick, kissing a genderless capitol citizen with artificial gold skin. I laugh nervously. Finnick kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, my jaw, just to block my view.

Then there's our President. Rigid, salty, mean man. He goes through the necessary niceties, neatly. That is the man who takes my Finnick away from me. Takes Finnick away from himself, and sells him. Does he know what's written on that paper? Of course. He has to make sure the moment he speaks is every bit as horrible as he has imagined.

"The male and female tributes for the third Quarter Quell…" Snow starts. He looks straight at me and Finnick. Revels in the fear he knows he imbues us with in this moment. I've never seen blue eyes so black. It sends an icy chill through my body. The terror is starting to catch me. The hysteria is coming, I feel it. I gasp. "Finnick, if they take you away from me I'll-"

"Are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors." Snow finishes. That's funny. Doesn't make sense. I laugh. I laugh and I shrink away. I laugh and my body goes cold and my blood feels frozen, which makes me laugh more. And Finnick is saying my name.

"Annie, Annie, Annie!" His voice rising in panic. His hands grasp at my face. Desperate, he is trying to look into my eyes. I think he wants to make the terror go away. I want that too. And, if only because of how much I need him right now, I meet his wild gaze. He looks bewildered. His beautiful, beautiful ocean eyes frenzied. Stormy seas. Like he needs me to stay sane. For him.

And then he breaks down. He breaks down before I do. What a terrific spectacle it is to see his magnificent form crumple to the floor. To see him lower his handsome, godlike head. Under words, just perfect words, uttered through television by venomous, salty lips. Words like seasalt to a cut that will never ever heal. He doesn't cry. It is so much worse than that. In this moment, he is unstable, radioactive. Like me. We are both crazy. The fucking madness runs through his veins like poison, just as it does mine.

He is still bowed to the floor, hands clasped behind his neck, when he asks me how I knew. How did I know they wanted to take him away from me.

I start to panic, but try to contain it. I keep the tears that stream down my cheeks unvoiced for Finnick's benefit. What if I didn't predict the Quell, but was responsible for it? What if I made it happen? That's an insane thought. I'm insane, I'm insane. But what if?

"You have such an amazing mind." his shaking voice marvels.

I shake my head. An explosive, destructive, disordered, disturbed mind, maybe. Not amazing.

He murmurs something about how he'll have to talk to Mags. It has certainly occurred to him that he will either have to lose Mags or me. He only has a fifty percent chance of keeping each of us, respectively. It's certainly occurred to me that my chance of keeping him is only one out of twenty-four. He is the only living male victor in our district.

Later, damage leads to anger. Anger leads to angry love. He pours his heart to me and I stay sane for him. He says he doesn't want to share his body with anyone. Like always. I'm the only person he trusts to touch him.

And so I do. It's hands and hair and shoulders and hipbones. We're lying on the floor. It's generously carpeted, but I can still feel where my shoulder blades will be bruised tomorrow. I don't actually care. Finnick always insists that we fit together. I don't know why. He is really beautiful, tall tan, athletic… I'm pale, sharp edges, thin skin, maps of blue veins and violet bruises. But Finnick thinks that we do. He used to be surprised that someone as fragile as I am would want to do this with anyone- especially someone like him who's had his idea of intimacy so devalued. His innocence so unnaturally tarnished. But I need this. People as damaged as we are have to press our bodies as close together as possible to try and feel whole again.

And this is glorious. His usually gentle speech laced with the sweetest vulgarities. I'm crying. Why am I still crying?

"Are you okay, love?"

"Mhmm-"

I'm as okay as I'll ever be. He doesn't dwell on it. He knows that I'm strong. He smiles for the first time since breakfast and lets out a little laugh as I'm unravelling in his arms.


	2. Processing Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But, see, that’s when he can heal me; O gentle doctor of my heart. He always holds me. And he gives me the sweetest kisses that I can finally feel again. He tells me stories he heard from his dead family, to distract us. I tell him stories I’ve never heard before, to sustain us."

I don’t sleep that night. I don’t sleep for a week. There are nights and afternoons when I fall in and out of a hot, feverish half-consciousness. Night terrors. I come out of them feeling like I haven’t. Not sure if I’m truly awake. And then sounds and smells are like smudges of burnt, numb, colour. Colour is too bright, heavy, and even beauty is garish and intrusive. I don’t want it, so I stay in darkened rooms, only okay with candlelight. 

This is my panic room. It’s not really for physical emergencies-- it’s an old cupboard. It’s a place to contain the chaos inside me. On good days, I marvel at how these dusty little walls can hold the entirety of the vast and terrible beauty of a mind, so humbly. I release it all to them, like kites in the wind. We used to fly kites. On better days. 

On bad days, it’s my absolute hell. I stay in here so I can feel like it’s only me. So that I don’t feel like I’m infecting others with this fear, chaos, destructive madness. It swirls around me, tosses me, drowns me. But the world outside remains safe, from me. 

Finnick knows that all he can do is make me feel as safe as possible. Often he can help. But what terrifies him is when I get paralysed. 

That isn’t hyperbole. It’s broken fight-or-flight response. Simple science. The useless coping mechanism of the hypersensitive. Because the fear is so much, I feel like I’m dying. So my body stops trying to save itself. It accepts it’s destruction with a wave of the most awful dread to be imagined. I can’t move.

Finnick has perfect reflexes, so this paralysis is something he cannot comprehend. So it terrifies him. He touches my hair, kisses my face, whispers my name. But I stay still, paralysed, petrified, stiff, still, cold. 

When the terror starts to numb, I sleep again. Then, I have to go out into the world again. I come back feeling so drained, I collapse in corners and cover my ears. My skin feels hot, my bones feel stiff. I feel threadbare.

But, see, that’s when he can heal me; O gentle doctor of my heart. He always holds me. And he gives me the sweetest kisses that I can finally feel again. He tells me stories he heard from his dead family, to distract us. I tell him stories I’ve never heard before, to sustain us.

“You have such a beautiful mind, my love.” 

There is such undue awe in that golden voice. I shake my head vehemently.

He insists, permeating my shield of numbness with blazing eyes. 

“Tell me,” I mumble, uncontrollably, in a voice so needy it makes me wince.

And, oh, Finnick: with his ways with words, leads me on a tour of my own dappled consciousness. He tells me I’m stronger than he is. Because I take everything, everything in somehow, and yet I don’t burst. I tell him I am a wilting leaf. He starts to get angry with me, but reconsiders. No, he gets angry at them, because they called me a wilting leaf before I did. He breaks things. I understand. 

But when he returns to my side, he is even more steady and warm. “You have galaxies in there, I swear.” He marvels, petting my head of rumpled hair tenderly.

For a moment, everything I can see is beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated a thing! This is a proud moment for me. I hope that was mildly sensical (shh, I make up words sometimes). I took a lot of this from my own experiences with anxiety, so. And don't say I didn't warn you this would be an explosion of emotions.


End file.
